


Oh Her Majesty's Secret Service: A Better Bond Book

by azure7539



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 07:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure7539/pseuds/azure7539
Summary: A rewrite ofOn Her Majesty's Secret Service, or, rather, a slightly more modern look at the events in the book.Or the one where Bond meets the one woman, Tracy, who may possibly be the love of his life, runs up to the Swiss Alps while acting the part of a nerd to try and investigate a fishy research institution, gets distracted by not one but ten gorgeous human specimens, and wonders if all of this is just another one of Blofeld's elaborate schemes after all.For all it's worth, there are explosions and a whole lot of snow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/gifts).



> The plot belongs to Ian Fleming. I only rewrite, summarize, and cut down the frivolity. That being said, 85% of the wording here is mine.
> 
> If you read this and feel like it's a rushed job? That's probably because it _**is**_ a rushed job. I procrastinated until the last week to put this whole thing together, and I have a lot of regrets lol
> 
> This work has not been beta-ed or even proofread. 
> 
> Even so, if you do decide to read this, I hope you enjoy it.

Bond wakes a little dazed to rays of sunlight painting the walls a light wash of pale cadmium yellow, rich and buttery. And in that moment of teetering between the soft folds of dreams and reality, he shifts, the sheets are soft and warm beneath him as he listens to them rustle under his weight.  

It’s now that he notices there’s another person in bed with him, and the alluring touches of still lingering perfume along with the sight of those thick, luscious locks of fair hair shock the memory back into his sleep-addled mind.

Memory of one startling pink scarf trailing a little white car, of a kind of driving that is possibly even more reckless than his own, and a beautiful figure of a woman possessing a cold, firm will. A woman who knows exactly what she wants and how she’s going to get there. ( _“I would always be able to beat you. You want to stay alive.”_ )

La Comtesse Teresa di Vicenzo.

 _Tracy_.

 

( _She was off on her own before the game ended, wading through the haze of thick cigarette smoke without so much as a backward glance. He did find her later, though, by herself staring into the far distance, a half-finished bottle of Bollinger by her side._

_She seemed shuttered, tightly wound in a way that people tended to do when they were protecting a festering wound._

_Bond took the empty seat next to hers and opened the conversation with the only thing they had in common right then: the card game._

_Tracy indulged but cut straight to the chase afterward with a sideways glance at him. “Why did you rescue me when I made the ‘_ coup du deshonneur’ _?”_

_Bond shrugged. “No concrete reason other than the fact that we’ve made acquaintance between Abbeville and Montreuil this evening. You drive like an angel.” There was a flash of something like suspicion in her eyes, mixing in with hints of apparent intrigue and satisfaction. But then again, her guard had been up the entire time since his intevening back there during the game._

_“Although, I don’t think you’d have passed me if I had been paying attention,” Bond added because the only reason why they were there in the lounge at all was thanks to their mutual interests in gambling. And gamblers, reckless ones as they were, liked a challenge. “I was thinking of other things and didn’t keep an eye on the mirror.”_

_That did the trick, as expected, and Bond watched the embers in her eyes burst into flames. “Oh, yes.” So she did have some recollection of their last encounter. “And I’d have passed you in the villages and beaten you anyway. I would always be able to beat you.” It was the bitterness registering in her voice that drew him in. “You want to stay alive.”_

_This remark explained a lot of things—her attitude and demeanor—but nothing substantial at the same time. But he understood now, no matter how grimly, the determination in her eyes, the determination of someone driving with haste straight toward their demise._

_Bond looked up when his half bottle of Krug arrived and murmured a ‘thank you’ when the server poured him a glass and left. “My name is Bond, James Bond,” he offered because leading with truth first and foremost would usually turn out to be a good choice in the end, especially in dealing with sharp and quick-witted people._

_And besides, it wasn’t as if there was any reason to conceal his identity—he wasn’t here on a mission—not to mention the fact that he had been mentally drafting his own resignation letter anyway, having grown weary of the essentially wild goose chase M had sent him on in an attempt to uncover if Ernst Stavro Blofeld was alive and was still trying to resurrect SPECTRE._

_“And please stay alive,” Bond continued, picking up his full glass of champagne that he had topped off full to the brim and downing it. “One more night first at least.”_

_She considered him for a long moment, the storm in her eyes unreadable, before draining her flute of alcohol, too. “My name is Tracy. That’s short for all the names you were told at the reception in the hotel. Teresa was a saint, and I’m not a saint.” Her thumb creased over the smooth glass, careless with her own name but thoughtful about something else. “The manager is perhaps a romantic. He told me of your inquiries,” she explained. Her eyes suddenly flicked up after that to lock gaze with him, all crackling intensity. “So, shall we go now? I’m not interested in conversation. And you have earned your reward.”_

_Bond paused with a blink, but his brain caught up with the insinuation in her tone soon enough just as she rose to her feet._

_“No. I will go alone.” She stopped him with a gesture of her hand as he, in a note of confusion, tried to stand as well. “You can come later. The number is 45. There, if you wish, you can make the most expensive piece of love of your life. It will have cost you four million francs.” Once again, she was careless in terms of speaking about herself. “I hope it’ll be worth it.”)_

 

Tracy stirs next to him, a whoosh of breath releasing from her sleepy lungs. Bond waits, keeping still so as to not startle her while her brain takes in her surroundings.

When she does turn to him, there’s a softness nestling in her eyes that he did not see the night before, and Tracy reaches out, one hand on his cheek.

“Good morning,” she murmurs, a seemingly different air about her—much calmer and settled. Less self-destructive.

And Bond’s lips quirk up in a small smile. “Good morning, Tracy.”

 

_(By the time he arrived at her room, the only light illuminating the suite came from the lone reading lamp from beyond the ajar door leading up to the bedroom, its rays spilling out on the carpet like streaks of amber. And she was there, glorious on the big double bed with her fair locks fanning out on the pillow she was propped up against._

_The single sheet that covered her up to the chin did nothing to hide the fact that she was most definitely naked underneath._

_Bond crossed the remaining distance between them and sat down at the edge of the bed. He brought his hand up and pressed it against her cheek, a thumb creasing along the gentle rise of bone just below her fluttering eyelashes._

_“Now listen, Tracy.”_

_“I said ‘no conversation,’” she cut him of swiftly, a fervor burning in her eyes. “Take off those clothes. You’re handsome and strong, and I want to remember what it can be like.” It was that feeling again, like something was off, gnawing at the back of his head. “Do anything you like. Just tell me what you like and what you’d like from me. Be rough with me. Forget everything else. No questions.”_

_Her desperation was less of childish naivety and trust in a stranger to bring her sexual satisfaction, and more of her seemingly trying her best to cling onto something._

_Something so familiar and close to home that he might just know the answer to but was, right then, refusing to acknowledge._

_“Take me,” she says._

_And no matter the desire that ran hot in his veins, Bond shook his head. “Not when you’re treating it like a transaction.”_

_For a second, Trace appeared thrown off course. “W-What do you mean?” There was an offended tone already catching at the end of those words._

_“You are a beautiful woman, Tracy,” Bond said, voice low and deep in the hollow of his throat. He let his hand trace along the smooth and unblemished skin of her cheek, meandering down her jawbone then dipping toward the long line of her slender neck. She was exquisite, he thought; he could fuck her into the sheets and make her moan and writhe under him. Give her all the ecstasy that she told him she wanted and craved… But there was no absolute need for it, no mission integrity or national security on the line. Not when she was like this._

_He wasn’t here on a mission, and she was not a target._

_“But,” he continued softly, quietly, “you don’t owe me sex because I helped you out at a game of card. Do you understand?”_

_“Of course I know that,” she snapped, angry and indignant now. “What do you—”_

_He kissed her, the feel of her lips full and plump against his own. She tasted of champagne and a flavor of the sea, and he breathed in the sigh that escaped her nostrils. When her hands fumbled for the buttons on his shirt, however, he caught her wrists gently to still the erratic movements._

_The eyes that met his were puzzled, but that was okay, Bond supposed as he laid her back down onto the bed and briefly admired the planes of her body, partially exposed from where the sheet had fallen down in her attempt to lean up into him to return the kiss. And before Tracy could voice her question, which he knew was perched right there just at the tip of her tongue, Bond kissed her again, slower this time, one of his hands working on removing his clothes himself while the other kept a near constant contact with her. Alternating._

_Finally, he moved on and started peppering kisses all over her body—from the bobbing swell of her larynx to the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. But, despite the intimacy of it all, Bond never did take her and only continued to worship her with his lips and the massaging pressure of his roaming hands._

_He didn’t stop until long after he had noticed the confusion melting from her eyes as she became pliant under him, relaxed for the first time since their initial encounter on that long winded, sunlit road. And a part of him was distantly relieved, watching her flutter her eyes closed and exhale with a deep-rooted sound of exhaustion._

_He had seen the look in her eyes far too many times in his own reflection in the mirror not to have recognized it…_

_Sex was never going to fill up that yawning abyss of desperation, never going to fix whatever was broken inside of her._

_If he couldn’t find it in himself to stop the cycle in his own routine, he might as well try and help her out, let her feel cared for, even just for that night._

_“That was heaven, James,” she breathed when he came up to lie down next to her on the bed, having turned sideways so he could no longer see her face. “Thank you,” she whispered._

_He kissed her shoulder one more time and closed his eyes.)_

 

They’re kissing again now, languid with an edge of, dare he say, affection from her, and he smiled a little when they part.

“Make love to me,” she says.

It takes him a second, a long second of looking deep into her eyes that glimmer like the most carefully polished gemstones in the warm sunlight, before obliging.

And it was glorious.

 

-

 

In retrospect, as he stands here on a beach with two automatic guns pointing at him, already disarmed and patted down, Bond supposes he had been impatient. Possibly a little too optimistic about Tracy and the condition that he knows haunts her mental landscape.

In the morning, after having reached their mutual point of satisfaction, Tracy was quick to chase Bond out of her room posthaste with barely fifteen minutes in between. And while he realized later that perhaps trying to tell her everyone had their own troubles wasn’t the most helpful thing he could’ve done, he really has never been good at handling such emotionally delicate and sensitive matters anyway.

But, in the end, Bond didn’t think he would regret keeping an eye on her even after such an abrupt rejection (something about the return of that whiplashed and cold will to her demeanor rubbing him the wrong way), didn’t think he would regret dashing after her on the deserted beach, hot sand digging into the soles of his feet as he ran and ran as fast as he could, to catch this reckless, self-destructive woman before she threw herself into the waves.

_(It would have been a slow and painful way to die.)_

However, looking at her like this, calm and entirely too unsurprised in the face of imminent danger, maybe he does regret it, just a little. Only if she has been faking her raw desperation this whole time.

Against his better judgment, though, Bond is willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, because whatever this is, whatever the intent of these two trained killers who appeared out of nowhere from behind just as he managed to pull her from those rising tides crashing ashore, everything about her has seemed… _genuine_. Including the blasé despondency she’s displaying right now. Why and how, Bond doesn’t know, but whoever is behind this, whoever is pulling the strings here to try and bring Bond in, they might just be forcing her hands as well.

It can very well explain her suicidal tendency.

The Bombard that Bond initially mistook to be their so-called rescue craft is fast approaching, and taking it as his cue, Bond bends down, rolls up his trousers, and pretends to fumble with his socks and shoes to palm one of his heel knives in the process. Once done, he straightens and discreetly transfers the nabbed weapon into his right trouser pocket with a sleight of his hand.

He’d be damned if he were to allow himself fall prey to such an imposed helplessness.

In relative silence, Tracy boards the craft first, followed by Bond, then the two men who ambushed them. It doesn’t take long before they’re heading back out into the waters again, quickly leaving the bejeweled glamor of Royale behind and veering off in the direction of, as Bond gradually recognizes, a not too far-off river and its marina.

“Tracy, you’re going to catch a cold,” Bond says. The sun is setting, and the last of its fleeting light is catching on golden locks of Tracy’s wind-swept hair, almost harshly blown back from the great speed at which they are driving away. “Take my coat.” He slips said coat off and, when she holds out a hand, puts it on her.

He is only slightly taken aback by the sudden feel of her hand pressing against his own, but without pulling away, Bond notes that, like this, with how the impassiveness in her eyes having morphed into something akin to resignation, it’s like they are equally as trapped as one another.

Equally a prisoner in the given circumstance.

And so, he edges closer to Tracy, eyes glancing at their two rather uninterested guards as he feels her respond the same in kind, the ‘Ode’ that is her perfume brushing at his senses in the proximity.

 

-

 

When the Bombard does indeed travel upstream a river, Bond tries his best to prepare himself for what may come next so he won’t seem too caught off guard later on. However, as they pull over to a brief stop by the river bank and the thugs start herding them both up a dirt road, Bond realizes that, out of all the options he anticipated, he really didn’t expect to be seeing one of those giant corrugated aluminium transport trucks, which glints with either a new or well-kept air.

But then again, shady figures have always tried very hard to think up increasingly elaborate and extravagant means to meet anything their shady businesses demand of them. And if Bond were to be honest, this entire trip itself has been unexpected since the very beginning, what with meeting Tracy and all. (Tracy, who has returned his coat to him and proceeded to enter one of the luxuriously decorated cabins inside this strange vehicle just a few minutes prior, once more acting indifferent with all her defences back on.)

So really, he _shouldn’t_ feel startled when his attempt at trying to assassinate the leader of this mysterious group after managing to lock them in what is presumably the forward compartment of this truck, is met with genial humor. But he does regardless, nonplussed as he observes this man—smallish, middle-aged with one walnut of a crinkled face—cheerfully say something he can’t understand yet instantly comprehend the second the pressure on the aluminium door eases.

The thugs on the other side have clearly been ordered to stop forcing their way in.

“I surrender. And I’m now a much bigger target, but do not kill me; I beg of you,” says the man, smiling widely in a charming manner. “At least not until we’ve had a stiff whiskey and soda and a talk. Then I’ll give you the choice again, okay?”

Bond straightens up and, despite not really having that legitimate a reason to do this now, ends up throwing the knife anyway, its sharp blade tearing across the room in a flurry and gauging straight into the calendar on the far wall behind the other man, who doesn’t even so much as flinch.

“Quite respectable,” the leader of the thugs says, laughing outright at this point. “I must set you against my men one of these days, and I might even bet on you. It’d teach them a lesson.” Coming round from behind his desk, the man holds out a hand toward Bond. The bulging muscles still visible underneath that comfortable dark blue suit are undeniable. “Marc-Ange Draco is my name. You have heard of it?”

“No.” Marc-Ange’s grip is firm and dry in his own, but Bond doesn’t linger long.

“Ah. But I’ve heard of yours, Commander James Bond.” Taking advantage of the man’s apparent readiness to be friendly, Bond heads over to retrieve his knife first, using this chance to also mask away his confusion at listening to someone else listing off personal, _classified_ details about himself. Marc-Ange, on the other hand, is impishly gleeful over this knowledge. “You’ve been taken off your usual duties and are on temporary assignment abroad. Yes?” he finishes.

Bond turns and says, “What makes you think so?”

But instead of answering, the man is beckoning Bond closer for that aforementioned whisky and soda. “I have a friend in Deuxième Paris, whom I pay to give me such information when I want it,” Marc-Ange elaborates while Bond pours himself a stiff Bourbon with water and plenty of ice. “I’m in the opposite camp to yourself—well, not directly opposite. Let’s say at a tangent on the field.” He pauses, then with much seriousness, continues, “I’m now going to establish confidence with you by the only means. I’m going to once again place my life in your hands.”

After a moment of silence in which the both of them take a drink from their respective glass, Marc-Ange’s eyes find Bond’s and hold onto them.

“I’m the head of the Union Corse.”

Ah.

 _The Union Corse_ . One of the more deadly and older Mafia gangs that controls organized crime throughout metropolitan France. Two people have, so far, pretended to be its leader, but now, Bond realizes in one surreal second that he’s sitting here with Marc-Ange Draco (a top Corsican bandit, who, of course, bears the name of an angel), the actual _Capu_ of the Union Corse himself.

Briefly, Bond considers listing off the intel he has on Marc-Ange as well, just as a sort of payback to what this man did to him earlier, but aborts the thought quickly. No harm in reserving some ammunition, after all, and there’s still the unknown business of why he and Tracy have been brought here in the first place, too.

“My dear Commander, please keep everything I’m going to discuss with you behind your _herkos odonton._ ” Marc-Ange carries on while Bond remains quiet as he sips his Bourbon, regarding this man with a sort of wary respect. “You know the expression? No?” The man is smiling widely once more. “It’s from classical Greek, meaning literally ‘the hedge of the teeth.’ The equivalent of you ‘top secret.’ Is that agreed?”

Bond shrugs. “If you tell me secrets that affect my profession, I’m afraid I shall have to pass them on,” he says, up front and unhesitant.

“That I fully comprehend.” The _capu_ waves it off. “What I wish to discuss is a personal matter concerning my daughter… Teresa.”

At this, Bond pauses, but under the watchful eyes of Marc-Ange, he doesn’t allow himself to display any potentially compromising reactions. “ _Herkos odonton_ it is, then.”

“Thank you. You’re a man to trust, I can see it in your face. Now then.” And, with a lit Caporal, Marc-Ange sits back in his chair and begins telling Bond about the tale of how he and his wife—a romantic, adventure-seeking English governess—met before she passed away ten years ago.

Tracy is the result of this relationship, Marc-Ange’s only child.

The apple of Marc-Ange’s eye, she, not unlike her mother, has an untamed spirit about her, and so kept getting in and out of troubles as she ran with the wrong crowds she encountered through school.

But as with everything, living life on the edge has its own price. A toll that needs be paid. “You know this can happen to both men and women, my friend,” Marc-Ange says, a terrible misery on his face. “They burn the heart out of themselves by living too greedily, and then one day, they examine their lives and feel that they are worthless. They’ve had everything, eaten all the sweets of life at one great banquet, and now, suddenly, there’s nothing left.”

Bond stays quiet in his seat and tries not to think about the utter sense of familiarity that is seeping its tendrils deep inside his veins, spreading like the alcohol circulating in his system. He listens on instead as Marc-Ange leads them to the next part: Tracy, in a desperate, last-ditch attempt at getting her life back on track, ran off to marry an Italian man, who ended taking as much money from her as possible before deserting her. But that, unfortunately, isn’t the end of it. Because Tracy was still left with a young child, her daughter.

“I purchased a divorce, bought a small château for my daughter, and installed her there. And for once, with the baby and a pretty garden to look after, she seemed almost at peace.” The wistfulness and pain in Marc-Ange’s voice serve as precursors to what he’s about to say next, and Bond can feel his stomach sink. “And then, my friend, six months ago, the baby died—died of that most terrible of all children’s ailments. Spinal meningitis.”

The silence that follows these words descends on the room like a palpable presence, and with the leftover traces of Tracy’s perfume still on his coat, Bond is reminded that much more strongly of her, all reckless abandon and wild temperament. And now, he supposes he can see why.

He hasn’t been far from the truth when he thought something awful must have pushed her to the end of her rope after all.

Bond regards Marc-Ange, who seems somewhat relieved after having the chance to share this story with someone, for a while, and even though this is a delicate subject matter, he really can’t stop himself from asking, “Having you thought of psychoanalysis? Or faith, if she’s religious?” He pauses, trying to work this out in his mind. “She’s a fine woman, and she still has nearly all her life to live.”

But they haven’t made it to the final climax of this story and its subsequent, eventual, conclusion yet, and so the _capu_ can only keep going, exposing his reasoning and fear on why he himself suspected that Tracy had planned on taking her own life.

“What you did last night, Mr Bond, the way you behaved in general,” Marc-Ange says. One look from him, and Bond knows that the man is perfectly aware of everything that happened, including what transpired between Bond and Tracy. “That may have been the beginning of some kind of therapy.”

And suddenly, Bond has the first inkling of why he has been brought here at all.

“You yourself suspected something, didn’t you.” This sounds less like a question and more of a grim acknowledgement. “You also feared for her.” Marc-Ange reaches into the top drawer of his desk and takes out a folded sheet of writing paper. He passes it over to Bond. “Read it, please. Then, you’ll agree with me that drastic measure needed to be taken, even if that meant inconveniencing you and making you think you were in danger. I do apologize for that, but I needed to bring both of you here.”

Bond shrugs. It isn’t the first time someone has had people point guns at him in lieu of an introduction. “Yes,” he concedes, opening the letter. “I was worried about her. She’s a woman worth worrying about.”

 

_Dear Papa,_

_I am sorry, but I’ve had enough. It’s only sad because, last night, I met a man who might have changed my mind. He’s an Englishman called James Bond._

_Please find him and pay him 20,000 New Francs that I owe him. And thank him for me._

_This is nobody’s fault but my own._

_Goodbye and forgive me,_

_Tracy._

 

“I see.” Bond bites back a sigh and takes a deep drink of his whisky. He has known all along, increasingly so after Marc-Ange’s detailed story, but to see it in writing, black ink on white paper… That’s a whole different thing altogether.

“She likes to call herself Tracy. Thinks that Teresa sounds too grand.”

“Yes.” Bond knows.

“Commander Bond.” The urgency, mixed with authority and appeal, in Marc-Ange’s voice unsettles Bond as he looks up at the man. “My friend, you’ve heard the whole story and have seen the evidence. Will you help me?” A voice in the back of Bond’s mind tells him that he’s seen this coming from a mile away, but even then, he’s still rather helpless in deviating from it. “Will you help me save this girl? It’s my only chance, that you’ll give her hope. That you will give her a reason to live.” Marc-Ange implores, grave. “Will you?”

Bond doesn’t meet the man’s eyes. In fact, he feels a little sick, the idea unsettling him. What Tracy needs is for her to go see a psychiatrist, not him. He’s no Good Samaritan; he’s not a doctor who can heal wounded birds. Not to mention the fact that, should he accept this, should he pick her up now, that would mean him carrying her for the rest of their lives while haunted by the knowledge that, if dropped, she would break and resort to taking her own life. That’s no healthy relationship. That’s no relationship at all.

“I don’t see that I can help,” Bond replies glumly. “What do you have in mind?”

“I wish for you to pay court to my daughter and marry her.” The man’s soft brown eyes glitter with tension. “On the day of the marriage, I will give you a personal dowry of one million pounds in gold.”  

“That’s utterly impossible,” Bond explodes. “Your daughter is sick. She needs professional help, the help of a psychiatrist. Not me. And I don’t want to marry anyone. I don’t want a million pounds.” A marriage should never feel like a bloody transaction. “You must understand all this. Tracy… She’s a wonderful woman. I will do all I can for her, but only when she’s well again. When she’s doing better mentally for her own self. Then, I would certainly like to see her again. Very much.”

Bond sighs, tirade ebbing upon seeing the pain creasing in Marc-Ange’s face. “If she does think so well of me, if you do, then Tracy must first get well on her own accord. That is the only way, and any doctor will tell you so. She must want to live again. Then, and only then, would there be any point in our meeting again,” he implores, almost to the point of pleading. “I’m a ruthless man, Marc-Ange, and I have not the patience to act as anyone’s nurse. You do understand, don’t you? Your idea of a cure might just drive her into deeper despair.” He shakes his head. “I cannot take the responsibility, however much I’m attracted to your daughter.”

It takes a moment or two, but eventually, the other man sighs in resignation. “I understand you, my friend, and I will act the way you suggest. But will you please do one favor for me? It’s nine o’clock now. Will you please take her out to dinner tonight?” Bond blinks at the man, relaxing marginally, having thought that it would be something more than just a meal. “Talk to her as you please, but show her that she is wanted. That you have affection for her. If only you can persuade her that you would like to see her again, I think I may be able to do the rest. Will you do this for me?”

Bond sighs, smiling with all the warmth he can summon, and agrees.

Relief blooms on Marc-Ange’s face as he wipes away a bit of tears, tears for finally having some much needed hope. “I will not thank you,” he says. “I cannot. But tell me, my dear friend, is there anything in this world that I can do for you, now at this moment? I have great resources, great knowledge and power, and they’re all yours. Is there nothing I can do for you?”

It’s now that Bond has a sudden flash of inspiration. “There is a man called Blofeld. Ernst Stavro Blofeld,” he says carefully. “You’ll have heard of him. I wish to know if he is alive and where he’s to be found.”

At this, Marc-Ange’s expression undergoes a remarkable change as it morphs into something cold, cruel, and calculating. This is the bandit that Marc-Ange is. The _Capu_ of Union Corse. And true to his words, Marc-Ange agrees. Apparently, Blofeld bribed away three of Marc-Ange’s men, and this, Bond supposes, explains the instant animosity.

Thanks to this, Bond finds out that Blofeld, alive and well, is now in Switzerland, which is much more lead than Bond had had in months.

Marc-Ange seems to pick up on Bond’s excitement and appears pleased. “If things go wrong for you, on this case or in any other way, you will come to me at once, yes?” he says seriously and proceeds to give Bond instructions on how to keep in contact with him. “You understand these tricks. And anyway—” there’s a sly smile on the man’s face, “—I believe you’re connected with an international export firm. Universal Export, isn’t it.”

Bond can’t stop himself from smiling. The old devil. He has half a mind to warn security, but thinks better of it. This man has become a friend now, and, at any rate, all this matter is, as Marc-Ange said, _herkos Odonton_.

 

-

 

Two months later, and there is yet any viable lead on Blofeld. Bond is quite tempted to contact Marc-Ange again but dreads the prospect at the same time because that will mean reopening the case with Tracy, a corner of his life that he wishes to leave undisturbed for the time being.

It’s not that they didn’t part on good terms last time; on the contrary, the dinner they had in that quaint local restaurant on their last night together was lovely. Both Tracy and he spent the evening in companionable quietness, which felt almost as if they had been old friends. Old lovers. Perfectly comfortable in each other’s presence enough that they not needed many words to fill in the silence.

Afterwards, they made love. This time, there was no tears, no desperation—only mutual affection—and Bond was genuinely happy. Happy that they seemed to be making progress. Even as he regretfully told her that he had to go abroad for some time to attend to some business, Tracy told him she would wait for him… that perhaps they could meet again come Christmas and go skiing together.

It was more from her than Bond had imagined, and it makes him feel deeply protective of Tracy. He wants her to be happy, too, but their relationship, her equanimity, he knows, rest on a knife-edge, still. Precarious enough that he wants to leave it be for the time being.

It’s now that Bond receives an urgent message from Six: there’s a line on Blofeld, and Bond has to show up at the College of Arms at once to meet with a Griffon Or.

Not that Bond needs to be told twice, of course.

 

-

 

Unnecessarily lengthy ramble aside, Bond thinks he’s most annoyed by the fact that Griffon Or has wasted his time on useless frivolity when this can very well be a matter of national security. He could’ve just let Bond get a word in, then the confusion would’ve been quickly sorted out, and Bond could’ve been in the office of Sable Basilisk—the man who actually has Blofeld’s case—by now.

However, stepping through a heavy door that leads into a light, clean, and pleasantly furnished room with attractive prints on the walls and meticulously ordered books on neat shelves, Bond can feel his vexation easing back just so as his eyes settle on the other occupant of the room. There’s a trace of aromatic Turkish tobacco in the air that tickles at Bond’s senses.

Sable Basilisk is a young man, younger than Bond by a few years from the looks of it, a fact which Griffon Or, no doubt, disapproves of, what with so-called inexperience and all. But Bond pushes this stray thought aside in favor of focusing on the man standing across from him instead. Rapier-slim with a fine, thin, and studious face, Sable Basilisk has a wry hint to the edges of his mouth and an ironical glint in those level eyes that save his from appearing too serious.

“Commander Bond?” The handshake Bond receives is brief and firm. “I’d been expecting you.”

Bond quickly explains what transpired to have brought upon his late arrival, and this prompts a laugh from Sable Basilisk, a bright and light-spirited sound, before the both of them take their respective seat on either side of the desk.

They get down to business right away. And Bond quickly learns that Basilisk here is an intelligent man, who’s quick-witted enough to have already gathered for himself that Bond isn’t just simply inquiring after some random character of no consequential importance. Not when he’s referred here by the Ministry of Defence.

It’s always exhilarating whenever Bond has the chance to work with people like this, and without delay, Bond tells Sable Basilisk to give him all the information he has on Blofeld.

Every last detail of it.

 

-

 

Looking at the snow and frost covered scenery of Switzerland in December, Bond can’t help the way his thought just gradually finds its way back to Tracy, as it has done many times before, and the little promise of a skiing trip they shared. He misses her, misses the easy way he can just be himself when he’s around her.

She’s been receiving professional help; Tracy. He received three cheerful postcards from her sent from the Clinique de l’Aube at Davos, and after putting in some inquiries, Bond was assured that Auguste Kommer, the professor who runs this clinic, is one of the top people in the world at his job.

Bond did write back to Tracy, all affection and encouragement, and, in a moment of weakness, added that he’d be home soon and would be in touch with her…

But would he?

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be with her. He does. Bond is just… he isn’t quite sure he’s capable enough to give Tracy all the care she needs and deserves.

He isn’t quite sure he’s not going to, in a bout of carelessness, unintentionally hurt her somehow, either with his words or actions.

“Sir Hilary Bray?”

Bond’s eyes flick up over to the woman who’s coming toward him right now. He’s just exited the entrance, too. “Yes.”

Hilary Bray, a baronet and a genealogist employed by the London College of Arms, is Bond’s undercover identity for this mission, as suggested by Sable Basilisk.

 

_(“Even if Blofeld agreed to see me, how in the hell could I play the part?” Bond asked, an incredulous sort of smile on his lips. “This stuff is all double Dutch to me.”_

_Sable Basilisk, who had that enthusiastic glint in his eyes of someone entirely up for a challenge, cheerfully waved Bond’s concerns away. “Oh, that’ll be all right. I’ll coach you in all the dope about the de Bleuvilles.” The de Bleuvilles, or, to be more precise, this lineage’s title of Monsieur le Comte Balthazar de Bleuville, was the reason why Blofeld even contacted the College of Arm at all._

_“You can easily mug up a few popular books on heraldry,” Sable Basilisk continued. “It’s not difficult to be impressive on the subject, to be honest. Very few people know anything about it.”_

_“Maybe.” Bond was, naturally, cautious and dubious. “But this Blofeld is a pretty smart animal. He’ll want the hell of a lot of credentials before he sees anyone but his lawyer and his banker.” This much Bond knew for sure._

_“You think Blofeld’s smart because you’ve seen the smart side of him,” Sable Basilisk replied sapiently. “I’ve seen hundreds of smart people—famous people I’ve been quite frightened to meet when they walked into this room.” He paused, a smile playing on his lips. “But when it comes to snobber, to buying respectability? Whether it’s the title they’re going to choose, or just a coat of arms to hang over their fireplaces, they dwindle and dwindle in front of you.” He made a downward motion over the desk with his hand. “Until they’re no bigger than homunculi.”_

_Sable Basilisk’s gaze was enigmatic and compelling as he reached out to light his first cigarette since the start of their meeting. “Blofeld wants a new skin. He wants a new and respectable personality—he wants to become a Count. So I can assure you, Mr Bond, if we play our cards right, he will receive you.”)_

 

Their game plan sounds deceptively simple: Bond, pretending to be Hilary Bray (a friend of Sable Basilisk who has a good war record, a title, a family tree as long as a grown man’s arm, and an outer appearance not too different from Bond’s own), will make contact with Blofeld and work with him on his de Bleuville pedigree before trying to lure him out of Switzerland so they can kidnap him.

It’s how to correctly execute this plan that’s going to be a bit of a challenge.

“Good afternoon. I am Fräulein Irma Bunt; personal secretary to the Count,” the woman says. She’s sunburnt, and the smile on her severe face lacks both humor and welcome. “I hope you had a happy flight.”

“Yes. It was very pleasant,” Bond replies.

And just like that the woman leads him through passport control and the customs office without so much as a hitch. Bond tells her, upon receiving the questions, that he doesn’t know German and speaks only a little French for work.

He still understands what _bundespolizei_ means in the pass she flashes at the customs officer, though. Federal police.

So, Blofeld did get the fix in, then.

After that, they exit the airport, and a nondescript car takes both Bond and Fräulein Bunt to a landing, driving past a _Entrance forbidden_ sign in the process, where a helicopter is parked. And it doesn’t take long before they’re up in the air, the woman reassuring Bond that he’ll have a fine view of the Alps from the aircraft.

“Where are we heading for?” Bond asks, speaking over the loud rattle of the engine. When she pretends not to hear him, Bond repeats the question, shouting it this time.

“Into the Alps!” she finally replies, shouting herself. “It is very beautiful. You like the mountains, don’t you?”

“I love them. Just like Scotland.”

Bond lights a cigarette, sits back, and surveys the view beyond the window. It occurs to him, not long later, that he’ll be flying over where Tracy is in just a few minutes.

His lips twitch up in a small smile as he looks down at the thin canopy of evening mist and smoke below. It feels just a little whimsical, seeing as there’s still sunshine sprawling bright at the altitude where he is, but at least Tracy seems to have had plenty of snow regardless.

The helicopter carries on flying, and Bond focuses back on his mission at hand and observes his surroundings carefully so as to have a decent enough estimate of their location.

By the time they descend and begin to land, the sun is dying over on the horizon, and the ground has become mostly dark now, but Bond is perfectly aware of where they are. Here, near the summit of an alp peak, 10, 000 feet above sea level, he can still make out the group of buildings and the cable car that eases from the plateau on which they just landed to the darkened valley downward, the last of the daylight splintering on the snow in rich, golden shards.

They climb out of the aircraft, and, even though Bond has taken the precaution of buttoning up his raincoat, the frosty, nearly oxygenless air still hits him like daggers through the lungs, and he can feel the muscles in his body seizing involuntarily. Clearly, in this sort of weather, Bond doesn’t appreciate the subsequent 50-yard trek through the snow to reach their destination in one of those buildings he saw, but he dawdles anyway, doing his best to have at least a rough layout of the place first and foremost.

Behind them, the helicopter, in a whoosh of air that sends snow and ice spattering all around, roars to life once more, obviously retreating now that there’s no passenger left to ferry, and takes off into the fading sunset.

 

-

 

Bond looks around the room that he has just been shown to and tries not to appear too keen after he spotted what can very well be a recording camera in one of the light prisms installed in the ceiling. From the looks of it, though, the range of the thing can’t be more than a wide circle covering the center of the room, and he’s rather sure that the whole expanse of the ceiling itself is a microphone listening in on him, too.

It’s safer to just assume that he’s under constant supervision, to be honest. But then again, at least it’s deliciously warm inside, he supposes.

Fräulein Bunt, before leaving Bond in the ‘privacy’ of his room, did give him a few hints of relevant, possibly useful information. Blofeld, it seems, is posing as a scientific researcher in the field of allergies here in this facility he calls _The Institut für physiologische Forschung_ —The Institute of Physiological Research. The building he’s in now is where the patients reside, and the laboratories are in a separate place altogether, where Blofeld also lives.

It is curious, but the woman, other than these brief facts, mostly kept to providing him with some highly suspicious ‘laws of the club’ that she insisted Bond must adhere during his stay. Like how, even though the door is not locked, there’s no handle on the inside, and if Bond needs to leave and go outside, he will have to press a bell-button so someone can open the door for him. (So long as he can still enter his own room on his own, then, Bond thinks wryly.)

Cocktails in the bar at six. Bedtime at ten. And apparently, according to Fräulein Bunt, ‘the boys,’ who Bond assume to be the patients, are much looking forward to meeting him, despite repeated sentiment from her that he must not disturb their delicate treatments with too many questions.

Bond blinks and just heads for the shower. He needs to make himself presentable then; ‘The Count’ won’t be seeing him until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, and this might as well be his big opportunity to make some necessary insider contacts, what with Fräulein Bunt this keen on remaining tight-lipped.

 

-

 

The bar, for all its new leather-padded and wrought-iron gimmicks, smells like the inside of a new motor car with pleasant zither music drifting out from some hidden loudspeaker.

Bond, just deciding inwardly that this is no place to get seriously drunk in, steps in and feels a sudden moment’s hush wash over the occupants of the room as they quietly size him up. In that fleeting moment of first impression, Bond feels like this is the most gorgeous group of men he’s ever seen.

So, these are ‘the boys,’ huh.

“Sir Hilary.” Irma Bunt emerges and grasps his hand. He doesn’t pull away. “Delightful, isn’t it. Come, please, and meet my boys.”

The rather intense heat in the room ghosts up along his neck, and Bond can feel himself sweating, just a little, as the woman leads him over to the tables, where the men have stood up to greet him, to shake this cool, this warm, this languid hand. They all introduce themselves—names like Reuben, Indigo, Mark, Albert sounding in his ears—but the charming smiles that they all keep directing at him are, at once, roguish and distracting.

By their accents, they’re all English. No surnames, and no other woman aside from the Fräulein herself. Men most probably in their late twenties.

Bond sits down at the seat reserved for him between Irma Bunt and and a blond with compelling blue eyes, and orders himself a whisky and soda. He takes out a cigarette next, but before he can reach for his lighter, the blond leans over and offers him first.

“Allow me,” he said, and Bond does. He watches the flame lick away at the tip of his cigarette and only pulls back once the ember seems more than sufficient to keep going by itself.

“Reuben,” the man reminds as he tucks his light away, voice friendly but refined. “The cold couldn’t have been pleasant now, could it?”

“Not at all,” Bond agrees with a smile. “But the more difficult part, I reckon, is getting all of your names right.” He notices that Reuben has leaned closer into him to make out what he’s saying from above the general chatter that has broken out all around the tables, and does the same. “If you don’t mind running through the field again for me?” he prompts, having lowered his own voice to a careful tone of conspiratorial playfulness.

And, like a good sport, Reuben obliges.

By the time he finishes, Bond has had the chance to observe everyone’s general mannerisms, committed the names to his memory, and counted the number of bulky waiters he can see (twelve in total). It’s time for another round of drinks, then, Bond thinks and gets up to place the orders at the bar—apple juice for Irma Bunt and a refill for Reuben here, who’s also been sipping on a whisky.

It’s now that a flash of inspiration permeates his brain: a game. He should set up a game for people to join in and break the ice with them.

And they will join, this bit Bond knows. Not just because this will be a fun game, but also because these chaps aren’t exactly the severely uptight type with strict self-discipline anyway.

 

-

 

Dinner, after a couple rounds of game, can be quite a tiring affair. The game itself wasn’t taxing, no, but it’s constantly trying to think, assess, and come up with the best and quickest possible ways to wriggle into a completely new social group that can be a draining challenge.

However, seeing as he’s already managed to loosen Fräulein Bunt’s tongue by planting the idea that she may or may not have some claim to a duchess title, Bond considers himself already rather successful. In the flush of excitement, she blabbers on about herself enough that he’s certain it won't be too a difficult job to trace out her file later on.

But that's not Bond’s main concern right now. At the moment, he’s more puzzled by the behaviors these people are displaying in regard to their meal. Because, while Bond is not really a food snob, he’s eaten better versions of these dishes before; that is to say, this level of cooking is decent but, at the same time, not quite there yet to warrant this much… enthusiasm. And that's an understatement. It almost as if they have been on some rigorous eating regimen, and this just happens to be one of those days on which they get to eat to their fill.

Filing this away, as it surely pertains to whatever scheme Blofeld is cooking up here, Bond turns his attention to trying to uncover more about these patients, specifically their last names, for easier tracking.

His effort is instantly thwarted, though, despite the clearly simmering interests he can detect in these men, as Fräulein Bunt reminds them all that the patients are not to disclose their surnames. It's, for some reason, part of their so-called treatment.

Bond doesn't buy this one bit but shrugs it off easily, leaving it for now, and veers the conversation topic to skiing.

After finishing his dinner, Bond doesn't linger and excuse himself on grounds of wanting to start on some work to return to his room. It's not a lie, though, because he is intending on keeping up with the façade for the camera. At least until he figures out what is going and what he needs to do, that is.

Reuben shoots him a smile just as he turns to leave, and Bond does the same in kind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings have changed! Please tread with precaution.**

The bloodcurdling scream that wakes him next morning comes from outside over at the cable station, too far out of eyeshot for him to see what could’ve caused it. 

Thundering footsteps of people running in the hall outside mirrors the thrumming beats of his own heart, but, against what his instincts are telling him, the instincts that have been trained into him to just  _ do something _ , Bond remains in his room and waits just a little bit longer before pressing the bell button to call for assistance.

The man who appears does not provide useful assistance at all other than the fact that it seems like a guide has fallen, but since Bond didn’t expect any to begin with, he isn’t surprised. And so Bond orders his breakfast instead, plays the part of a concerned bystander, asks to be kept updated on this, and retreats back inside to formulate a new plan.

When his food arrives and its server gone, Bond sets the tray aside on his desk and proceeds to pry open the double window. The mercilessly cold air of the alps attacks in an instant, and Bond counter this invasion by turning up the thermostat to a 90—time to eat his due and wait.

And Bond isn’t disappointed because soon enough, he can hear voices from the patients coming up from down below, ringing loud an clear, as they debate the situation amongst themselves. 

Apparently, a while after Bond excused himself last night, a fight almost broke out between one of the helpers here at the institute and a patient. Just some usual testosterone flare, Bond would say, but it seems that Blofeld didn’t treat it as such, and now the guide has been pushed to his death—probably out of insubordination. 

A typical, violent Blofeld death. A typical SPECTRE revenge. 

 

-

 

Standing here, finally inside the office of this supposed Count, Bond can feel the excitement he felt just moments ago at all the possible results this meeting can yield wash him by in a bout of cold sweat as his stomach begins to sink. He didn’t come in expecting to see the original Blofeld of old as described on the files—not at all—but… is it possible to so drastically change one’s own appearance? Because instead of a bland face with black crew-cut and beady black eyes on a tall, pale, twenty-stone man, Monsieur le Comte de Bleuville seems to weigh no more than twelve stone and has longish, silvery white hair. His ears, which should’ve been close to his head, stick out somewhat and possess no full, heavy lobes.

This man, like Blofeld, is still tall with long, thin hands and feet, sure, but these two features are really neither uncommon nor definitive in any way. 

Despite this rather unsettling revelation, Bond keeps his composure, looking into those eyes that have been tinted dark green from the use of contact lenses, and exchanges pleasantries with this man. Even his voice sounds different from the intel Bond received. 

They go to the veranda to conduct their business discussion. 

“And now,” says the Comte de Bleuville, “what have you got to tell me that necessitated this personal visit? Not that the visit it not most welcome, of course, Sir Hilary.” 

Bond, having been well-trained to answer this very question, replies accordingly to what Sable Basilisk taught him—scenario number two, in which Blofeld did somehow lose his prominent earlobes to match up with the known and recorded characteristic of the de Bleuvilles. 

“My dear Count,” Bond begins. “There are occasions in the work of the College when research and paperwork are simply not enough. In your case, there’s a difficult passage in regards to the hiatus between the disappearance of the de Bleuville line around the time of the French Revolution and the emergence of the Blofeld family, or families, in Augsburg.” Bond pauses and leans forward for emphasis. 

“Moreover, there’s also the matter of physical peculiarity. You see, there are some family bloodlines that pass down distinctive physical traits.” And at this, to sort of flaunt his ‘expertise’ in the field as well as to confirm his own ‘legitimacy’, Bond starts listing out all the examples that he learned from Sable Basilisk. “And since the College has to be extremely strict in cases concerning ancient and honorable titles such as the one in question now, I’ve been sent to determine the existence of this of such a peculiarity.” 

The Count’s hands reach up to his ears when Bond announces that the de Bleuvilles, as one inherited characteristic that runs in the family, have no earlobe, and Bond can’t help but wonder if this is all just one great, big, elaborate piece of acting. He really won’t put it pass Blofeld. 

“Now that you have seen what you came to see, you regard the title is still in question?” the man asks slowly.

“What I have seen certainly allows me to recommend that the work should continue, Count,” Bond replies. And this is the worst hurdle of all because now, everything depends on Bond successfully selling the idea that should this Count want to claim any sort of title at all, he needs to get out of his safe hiding place here in the Swiss alps and go to Augsburg, Germany to confirm whatever concocted facts necessary. That is where MI6 can kidnap him.

Bond finishes this explanation and waits as the Count gets up and contemplates this in temporary silence. 

“You think that, with patient work, even with the inclusion of a few question marks where the connecting links are obscure, I would achieve an  _ Acte de Notoriété _ —” Act of Notoriety, “—that would satisfy the Minister of Justice in Paris?” he asks finally. 

“Most certainly,” Bond lies, smooth as glass, a smile on his lips. “With the authority of the College in support.” 

 

-

 

Bond returns to his room after the meeting, careful to leave his door ajar, and discovers that his things have been gone through, as he suspected they would be. But since there is nothing to be found, as he did pack his belongings without any add tricks to them this time, he’s still in the clear for now. 

With this thought in mind, he takes out a large piece of paper and starts doing some more work to keep up with appearances and whatnot, and doesn’t stop until the noises from the veranda outside becomes too distracting. 

Time for some discreet exploring, then.

It’s in the ski-room and workshop next to the exit that Bond finds an untidy pile of lengths of thin plastic strips, used for boots to rest on in their bindings so snow won’t ball under the soles. Perfect for opening the locks that secure the doors in this facility. 

Excited, Bond nabs one of the plastic strips, slips it up his sleeve, and leaves, strolling out of the room. 

Bond spends the remainder of his morning just surveying the grounds and memorizing the three skiing runs it has (which one is the easiest and most popular and which one is closed, presumably due to avalanche danger) because he knows this may come in handy later on. 

As lunch comes around, Bond arrives at the restaurant to find that Reuben and Indigo are already there. He sits down next to Reuben, as he did last night, and is just ordering a double medium-dry vodka martini on the rocks when he feels Reuben press a thigh against his own.

Bond doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns just so their gazes meet and smiles languidly at the other man, who also replies with an upturn quirk to his lips and a sort of satisfied glint in those large blue eyes.

Irma Bunt makes her entrance now and takes her place at the table. “I’m so pleased to hear that you will be staying with us for a whole week, Sir Hilary. You enjoyed your interview with the Count? Isn’t he an interesting man?”

It’s hard not to notice that Reuben and Indigo are ordering almost the same thing they did last dinner again, but for lunch this time. Chicken and potatoes, respectively. 

“Very interesting,” Bond begins to reply to Fräulein Bunt, but before he can finish what he’s trying to say, out of the corner of his eyes, Bond can feel that someone is approaching the table. 

It’s an unfamiliar, military-looking man, who is roughly around Bond’s age and has a puzzled look on his face. And he’s coming up specifically toward Bond, too. “Excuse me, but I saw your name in the visitor’s book… It is Hilary Bray, isn’t it?”

Bond can feel his insides clench. One of the main reasons why this Hilary Bray bloke was chosen to be Bond’s cover on this mission in the first place was because he’s more or less a hermit who has not gone anywhere for as long as he’s been back on home soil. 

And here they are.

“Yes, it is,” Bond agrees. 

“Sir Hilary Bray?” The man’s pleasant face grows even more puzzled. 

Bond stands and turns his back to the table. To Irma Bunt. “That’s right.” He takes out his handkerchief and coughs a little into it, using the sound to cover up whatever possibly fatal question that may come next. 

“In the Lovat Scouts during the war?”

“Ah,” Bond sighs and lowers his voice. “You’re thinking of my first cousin. From Ben Trilleachan. He died six months ago, poor man.” He shakes his head, appropriately rueful. “I inherited the title.” 

“Oh, lord!” Grief quickly overcomes the confusion on the man’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a great pal of mine during the war… Odd, though. I didn’t see anything about it in The Times. Always read the ‘Births, Marriages, and Deaths.’” He pauses. “What was it, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“Not at all.” Bond can feel sweat gathering on his skin, even in the crisp frost of this cold weather, and sucked in a breath. “He fell off one of those bloody mountains of his and broke his neck.” 

“My God! Poor chap! But he really was always fooling around the tops by himself… I must write to Jenny at once.” He holds out his hand. “Well, sorry to have butted in. Thought this was a funny place to find old Hilary.” They shook hand, and the man starts to retreat. “Well, so long. And sorry again.” 

When Bond sits down again at the table, Fräulein Bunt’s eyes are on him, watching, and he takes it as his cue to launch into a quick, seemingly lighthearted explanation about what just transpired. 

“Curious coincidence,” Irma Bunt remarks with her eyes still holding his. “Were you very alike, you and your cousin?” 

“Absolutely,” Bond says. “Spit image. Often used to get taken for each other.” 

Coffee arrives then, and Bond steers the conversation toward something more cheerful as he makes small talk with Reuben, who once again is pressing his thigh against Bond’s. 

That was close. Too close. 

 

-

 

When he finds Reuben on the other side of his door just before their scheduled time for drinks in the bar, Bond doesn’t know whether to feel surprised or not, considering the small intimacies they’ve been engaging in. 

But Bond can’t really say anything yet because Reuben has his forefinger pressed against his lips in a gesture of silence whilst his free hand points toward the bathroom door, a hint which Bond understands right away as he lets Reuben in.

They both get into the bathroom and close the door.

“Sorry, Sir Hilary,” Reuben says, voice still a lowered hush. “But I just wanted to talk to you for a second.” 

“That’s fine, Reuben.” Bond waves it off. “But why here?”

“Don’t you know?” Reuben blinks before shrugging. “Well, of course you wouldn't. It’s supposed to be a secret, but it’s not like it really matters in the end.” 

His tone seems uncaring of consequences, but there’s a certain wariness in his eyes, too, because this is what a sudden, seemingly accidental death does to the people around it. 

“You can tell me,” Bond prompts, soft and with just the right amount of nudging.

And so, Reuben tells him about how all the rooms have microphones in them, and probably visual recordings as well because there’s always that feeling of being watched. 

“But the point is, Sir Hilary.” There’s an insinuation in his tone and expression that tells Bond where this is going. “What you said about Bunt perhaps being a duchess… Is that really possible?”

“Oh yes.” 

Reuben’s little smirk is both amused and cheeky. “So what are my chances, you think, for being a Windsor, then?”

Bond smiles back, particularly pleased about this turn of events, especially when it doesn’t take much more effort after this to pry about the names of the other man’s parents and hometown. Even more so when he manages to find out that Reuben, for all that his family runs a poultry farm, used to be allergic to chickens, the very meat he now eats at every mealtime so far. 

“But the Count’s absolutely cured my trouble.” Reuben shrugs. “I simply love chickens now.” His eyes become suddenly rapt. “They’re just the most beautiful, wonderful birds in the world.” 

Bond nods, mystified. Of course new questions would arise right after a couple of the older ones have been solved. “About your name. I’ll get to work on it right away, but… how are we going to talk? The only bit of possible privacy is if we either meet in my room or yours.”

“At night you mean?” Reuben raises an eyebrow. He seems a little surprised for a fraction, but that ebbs away soon enough as the glimmer of excitement once more rises and dances in his eyes.

“Yes, it’s the only—” But before Bond can finish and make the first move, Reuben is already bringing their lips against one another, a not so surprising move, Bond supposes, not after all the times he has taken it upon himself to initiate things. “I think…” Bond breathes when they part and lifts his arms up to wrap them rather clumsily around the other man, “you’re terribly attractive.” 

Reuben grins. “Tonight then,” he murmurs. “Come to my room. It’s number three, right next door.” And Bond can’t but agree. “How would you get out of here, though? You can’t open the door by yourself, and there’s a guard going up and down the passage every so often.” 

Bond smirks and takes out the strip of plastic he snagged earlier. “I have my ways.” 

That makes Reuben chuckles as he leans in to kiss Bond again, impressed. 

 

-

 

Dinner yields another last name, because everyone wants to become involved when it comes to snobbery, but not much else. Bond doesn’t sneak out of his room until eleven, and even then, it’s only after he’s turned off the light and pretended to go to sleep. 

The strip of plastic works excellently, as he imagined it would, and Bond slips out of his room and into Reuben’s, which is darkened like his own, without trouble.

They don’t waste much time, seeing as Reuben, who is a little taller than Bond, is more than ready to be the one pressing Bond into the mattress and cool sheets below. And Bond lets him, mumbling insincere sweet nothings to encourage Reuben on, spurring their passion to burn and crest into a crescendo. Obviously, there is no strings attached. But then again, these things rarely are. 

It’s not that he has anything against Reuben or good sex, it’s just that perhaps Bond himself is starting to get old. Old and a little tired of romantic conquests, of flings that will fade into nothingness as soon as the missions are over. 

(He tells himself that it’s probably okay to want something more substantial than this. Something real.)

Afterwards, as they lie there sweaty and sated, Bond, a fulfilled sore aching up from the base of his spine, is just about to drift off when he’s roused awake by a sudden, deep-toned and melodious electric bell that comes from under the floor. 

“Oh damn,” Reuben groans sleepily. 

“What is it?”

“Ignore it. It’s only my treatment. You just go to sleep.”

Bond kisses Reuben between the shoulder blades but says nothing else, listening keenly, even more so when the Count’s voice rings out—low and caressing but authoritative as well—everyone clear and distinct: he’s telling them (or, rather, Reuben) to go to sleep, and he’s telling Reuben that he loves chickens. He loves chickens, and soon, he’ll be able to help all the chickens of England and improve the breed.

And above all, this is a secret. A secret that Reuben must not tell anyone at all. 

It’s clearly deep hypnosis.

Bond leaves and goes back to his room.

 

-

 

Not knowing what to make of all this, Bond goes for his meeting with the Count next morning to continue with his work as Sir Hilary Bray. And finally, after much probing and in-depth questioning, Blofeld finally caves and tries to offer Bond money to buy him off, to make all of this complicated paperwork go away.

_ Got you, you old fox _ , Bond thinks. 

It’s now that the door bursts open. Two guards, who look surprised to see Bond there, propels a bloodied man into the room before coming to attention. 

“Was ist derm los?” the Count snaps.  _ What is going on? _

Bond, ice running cold in his veins as he looks at the man who has fallen and is writhing in pain where he is on the floor, knows the answer to this. Behind all the blood and melting snow, Bond can recognize a familiar face: Shaun Campbell, Number 2 from Station Z in Zürich—a friend of his in the Service. 

Campbell must’ve been following a lead of his own, though, because Station Z has especially not been informed of Bond’s mission.

“He was found in the open ski compartment at the back of the gondola. Much frozen, but he put up a strong resistance and had to be subdued,” the leading guard informed. “Says he’s an English tourist from Zürich. That he had no money for the fare but wanted to pay a visit up here. We searched him, though, and found that he carried five hundred Swiss francs. No identity papers.” The man shrugs. “He says his name is Campbell.”

Upon hearing his name, the man on the floor stirs, his eyes looking wildly around, and when they settle on Bond, he knows to fear the worst. “James! Thank God!” Campbell says hoarsely, astonished and badly battered in the face and head enough that his control seems to have been shot to pieces. “Tell them it’s me! Tell them I’m from Universal Export, in Zürich! You know!” But Bond, no matter how much impassivity disgusts him, remains silent. “For God’s sake, James! Tell ‘em I’m okay.” 

Bond can feel the Count’s eyes on him. The smile he has on him is grotesquely horrible. “You know this man, Sir Hilary?” 

When Bond ruefully shakes his head, he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s sentencing Campbell to death. “Never seen him before in my life. Poor man, he sounds a bit daft to me. Concussed, probably.” He pauses. “Why not ship him down to a hospital in the valley? He looks in a pretty bad way.”

“And Universal Export?” the Count presses, his voice silky now. Lethally so. “I seem to have heard that name before.” 

“Well, I haven’t,” Bond replies indifferently and reaches inside his pocket to retrieve a cigarette, lighting it with a dead steady hand. “Never heard of it.” 

And just like that, the Count orders his guards to take Campbell to the interrogation cell, and no matter how sorry he feels for his colleague, Bond can’t help but try to estimate how much time he has left before Campbell gives in and makes a confession, unfoiling this mission altogether. 

Bond pretends to be confused when Campbell shoots him one last terrible look of appeal before being dragged away. 

“I have told them to take him to the sick-room to be looked after,” the Count lies. “I am afraid this unhappy intrusion has interfered with my train of thought, Sir Hilary. So perhaps you will forgive me for this morning.” 

“Of course, of course. And as for your proposition, I’m sure we could come to some satisfactory arrangement.” Bond smiles conspiratorially. “Good day.” 

With that, Bond leaves, noting the raging snowstorm outside. But instead of going straight back to his room, he loiters in the corridor where he sees that one of the doors there is ajar. Head spinning with that happened, Bond decides to just screw it. May as well give it a look. 

Inside, it’s a long, low laboratory with shuttered windows and dark red light, not unlike the kind they use in film-developing chambers, filtering from the cornice above. There’s a plastic-covered workbench filled with retorts and line upon line of test-tubes and vials containing some cloudy liquid. 

The whole thing was like a scene from a theatrical hell, and Bond withdraws, wondering just exactly what to do next. Even if Campbell regains his wit about him and realizes that Bond must be here for a purpose, that he had no choice but to throw a colleague to the wolves, with all the torturing methods Bond knows these people can employ, he’s highly uncertain that Campbell will manage to last long. 

Bond, right now, needs to get all the information he can first. Then, he’s going to get the hell out of here. 

 

-

 

Reuben stops by his room again later on, and they once more quietly head into the bathroom to have their conversation. 

“What’ve you been doing?” He arches an eyebrow. “You’re in trouble.” 

“Nothing,” Bond says innocently. “What’s going on?”

“Well, Bunt, that bitch, told us that we mustn’t talk to you unless she’s there.” His eyes flick to the side then settle back on Bond. “Do you think they know about us?”

“Couldn’t possibly.” Bond shakes his head and says reassuringly, “I think I know what it is. The Count told me this morning that I was an upsetting influence here, disruptive, and that I was interfering with your treatments. So he asked me to keep to myself more. Honestly, that’s all it is.” He shrugs. “Which is a pity, really. I was planning on helping you all.”

“What—How do you mean?” 

“Well, this business of surname. I’m looking into it for you anyway, and I may as well help the others, too. I did speak to Indigo last night, and he seemed awfully interested himself. Everyone’s interested in where they came from, after all.” He shrugs. “I’ve decided to get the hell out of here anyway, but if you give me everyone’s names, I’ll do a piece on each one and post them when you all get back to England.”

Reuben is quiet for a while, but eventually, he does come forth with all the information Bond needs in the end.

 

-

  
  


At ten o’clock, after a whole day spent on edge while collecting what he needed, Bond slips out of his room and starts on his plan of escape. First by killing the guard at the reception desk to obtain the key to the ski-room where he can get the necessary equipment, then it’ll be time to start on his descend down the alp toward the valley below. This will be the tricky part. 

And because this is a matter of life and death, Bond carefully adjusts all his gears, rushing, but not so much so that he’ll make some sort of mistake, and gets going. 

Under the three-quarter moon, the fresh snow that has settled over everything the storm passed looks pristine like glittering diamond dust, and Bond does everything he can to bring himself up to a spine-chilling speed as he whizzes down the slopes. 

It’s all very exhilarating, but soon enough, Blofeld and his people are onto Bond. They shoot two flares up into the sky to plunge all the dark shadows of the night into hideous daylight with cracks of blazing magnesium, and, at the same time, Bond can hear the cables above his head whirring to life. 

They’re sending the cable car down after him. 

Bond curses and proceeds to keep going, as fast as he dares. Next thing he knows, there’ll be a man after him. A man with a gun.

But Bond finds out quickly that, instead of a gun, the cable car has a grenade thrower, and they are aiming straight for him. Bond clenches his jaw and swerves, trying to get away, lest the next one hits him dead on. 

However, no sooner has that thought crossed his mind, than one more of the grenade explodes just head of him, hurling him backward and sidesway. Bond lands with a thud, his ears ringing and vision swimming, disorientation gripping at him like a vice. 

No. Bond thinks, gasping as he gets up with a growl and spits away snow. He must keep going. There are fired shots tearing through the night in the distance, and he has no more time to waste. 

Knees aching, because this is the Achilles’ heel of all skiers, Bond gets up just as he hears a booming crack just off not too far behind him, and dread floods his system instantaneously. 

Avalanche. 

The ground beneath his skis shakes violently, the swelling rumble rushing towards him like roaring express trains in the tunnels. 

Great. Just great.

Bond gets down in his ugly crouch and tries to race it, shooting himself downhill and heading for the treeline, his skis screaming. The thundering of the avalanche is gaining on him, and Bond veers to the left, flinging himself straight down the wide white glade between the trees. Even so, with the horrible sound of crashing trees, crushed under a mountain-worth of snow, growing increasingly closer, Bond knows he’s losing. 

Bond reaches the end of the glade and turns right, grasping for his last hope that if he won’t  be swallowed whole if he can just get down below the wide belt of the trees.

But Bond’s right ski suddenly catches on a root or a sapling, and he can feel himself flying through space, crashing once again and choking as the air is knocked out of his lungs. 

He’s done for now, Bond thinks. 

However, after a tremendous buffet of wind hitting him and a small snowstorm covering him up, it’s past Bond just like that, the wild and crashing roar giving way to a slow, heavy rumble. 

Bond gets up shakily onto his feet and wipe away the snow, his heavy breathing and racing heart now seemingly too loud in the silence. There’s no time to dawdle, unfortunately, not even a bit of rest because already, there are gunshot firing at him. One of the guide has already found him. 

Angrily, Bond lets the chase begin once more and puts on more speed, zigzagging to spoil the man’s aim, and heads down closer and closer to the end of the run. 

There’s a railway line with a train coming up ahead. It’ll be a close call, but Bond can take the risk and use this chance to cut off his tail, for a while at least. Digging in with his sticks for extra speed, Bond takes a run at the low embankment and hurls himself into the air, barely scraping past the express train heading straight for him.

A scream follows Bond’s crash onto the icy road on the other side of the track, and the train now brakes into a screeching halt. It’s then, when the snow-fan that’s been steadily fountaining new snow reaches Bond and sputters out a pink spray, that Bond understands what happened.

Wiping some of it off his face, Bond feels his stomach turn. The man tried to follow him but was too late and missed his jump, getting instead caught by the snow-fan and its murderous blades. 

Mincemeat. 

 

-

 

After two more treacherous miles, Bond finally manages to reach civilization, the small village providing the temporary refuge that he desperately needs right then, what with his breaths now sobbing inside his throat. Blearily, he spots a skating rink—apparently, it’s a Christmas Eve skaters’ ball—and heads straight for it. Because crowds mean confusion, and confusion will be good for him on the double-hunt he knows for sure will now be on. A double hunt for him by SPECTRE and the Swiss police. The cops and the robbers hand-in-hand.

Bond pays for the entrance fee at the ticket-table, the man sitting there looking about as drunk as Bond feels right now. “Fancy dress. It’s  _ obligatoire _ ,” says the man with a lopsided smile as he tosses Bond a black and white domino mask. “One more franc. Now you are the gangster, the spy. Yes?” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Bond mumbles, pays, and puts on the mask. He’s almost reluctant to let go of the table he’s been heavily leaning on, but does no anyway and stumbles through the entrance before slumping down on the first wooden bench he sees that has an empty seat. 

Exhaustion pulls at him like a yawning abyss, and before Bond can stop himself, not that he really wants to resist anyway, he’s already falling asleep right where he sits. 

“Sir. On to the rink, sir.” Someone is shaking his shoulders to jolt him awake. It’s the MC. “Please. All onto the rink for the grand finale. Only one minute to go.” 

“Go away.” Bond tries to push the MC away, but in the back of his mind, beyond the bone-deep tiredness, he knows he mustn’t make a scene and draw attention to himself. Finally, with a great sigh, he struggles onto his feet, somehow managing to stay upright, and makes the few steps to the rink. 

A gentle hand grasps his, steadying him, and Bond feels a sudden rush of relief and gratefulness, especially when he’s still verging this close to delirium. It’s a woman, he realizes, dressed in a black skating skirt topped by a shocking-pink parka, and the familiarity of her face registers in his brain. Brilliant blue eyes and with a hint of firm will and authority behind them, she is smiling up at Bond in dazzling excitement. 

“James,” she whispers. “It’s me! Tracy!” She pulls him close, the only thing keeping him upright right now. “What’s the matter with you? Where have you come from?”

“Tracy,” Bond breathes. “Tracy, hold onto me. I’m in bad shape. Tell you later.” 

 

-

 

“Everything will be all right. Just hang onto me,” Tracy says, getting her arm under his as they mingle in with the crowd. She appears entirely unperturbed by the fact that Bond looks about to crash at a drop of a hat and that he seems to have been caught up in some unsavory business. “Are there people waiting for you outside?”

“Could be,” he grunts. “Watch out for a big black Mercedes; they may be shooting.” At this, Bond tries to muster all the strength he can and attempt to move away. “Better stay away from me. I can make it… Do you have your car?” 

“It’s down by the road. But don’t be silly,” she admonishes. “Here, get into this parka. It’ll be a tight fit, but it’ll work.” She takes off said parka and helps him put it on. 

“But you’ll get cold.” 

“Do as I tell you.” She’s having none of his protest. “I’ve got a sweater and plenty on underneath.” Once he’s had both his arms in the sleeves, she pulls the zipper up with a decisive  _ whoosh _ . “Darling James,” Tracy is smiling again, playful, “you look sweet.”

The remaining warmth of her body heat seeps into his skin and envelopes him like a tight, reassuring hug, and like this, Bond can smell the scent of her perfume in the material, Ode by Guerlain as it is. It’s incredibly pleasant and soothing, taking him right back to Royale where they first met. 

Bond looks at Tracy, admiring her for the woman that she is. The fact that she’s here, that he’s not alone and has her as his ally… it revives Bond immensely. 

He holds onto her, one hand slipping on the Omega watch he deliberately shattered over his knuckles, and follows her to the exit. As expected, two thugs are already there, standing by the ticket man and watching the crowd of people critically. 

“Tracy.” Bond slides his arm over her neck. “They’re here, but I think we can make it. Kiss me all the way past the ticket table.”

Without missing a beat, she flings an arm over his shoulder and draws him close. “Just what I’ve been waiting to do.” She crushes their lips together, kissing passionately, and just like that, they make it through onto the street. 

Bond can already see the familiar darling little white car.

But then, perhaps recognizing Bond’s gait or his old-fashioned ski-trousers, the horn on the Mercedes starts blaring urgently, so both of them run, hurrying into the car with Tracy jumping behind the wheel and getting the vehicle into gear. Soon enough, they’re speeding like hell down the main road. 

“You’re an angel, Tracy, but take it easy,” Bond says. “We don’t want to end up in the ditch.” 

She glances at him and laughs with pleasure. “That sounds almost as if you were feeling better, but I can’t see you very well.” Tracy maneuvers through the traffic like a dream, reckless as ever. “Take off that silly mask and my parka now, I’d like to see you. And anyway, the heat will come on in a minute, and you’ll be roasted like that.” 

Bond smiles and does as he’s told, the life quickly coming back into him as tension uncoils in his stomach. It’s truly is so wonderful to be in this little car with this marvelous woman. After so much dread and despair, there’s finally hope again. 

“It’ll be better when we get to Zürich,” Bond says. “Can you make it? It’s still one hell of a way to spend Christmas though.” 

Tracy takes a turn, and it’s so dangerously sharp and fast, Bond swears they’re going to lose control. But, even with the black ice on the road, she gets out of it and drives blithely as though it’s nothing at all. “For God’s sake, Tracy! How in hell did you manage that? You haven’t even got chains on.” 

She just laughs, entirely too pleased with the astonishment and awe in his voice. “Racing tyres,” she says easily. “Don’t worry, James. Just sit back and enjoy the drive.”

There’s something new about her, about the way she conducts herself and the lilt in her voice. In the dim interior of the car, Bond turns to look at her carefully for the first time. Tracy seems stronger and healthier than before. 

She seems happy.

“Satisfied?” She smiles cheekily at him. 

“You look absolutely wonderful.” Bond clears his throat. “But now, tell me how you happened to be here? It’s a bloody miracle. You saved my life.” 

“We’ll, it’s quite simple really.” She reaches to the dashboard and switches on the heat to get him more properly warmed up. “Papa rang to find out how I was the other day and asked if I had seen you. He seemed very annoyed when I said I hadn’t. Practically told me to go and find you.” She chances a look at him. “He’s quite taken to you, you know.”

They’ve been keeping up a good speed down the slope, but when Bond turns to look at the rear window, he swears under his breath. 

“I know,” Tracy says. “I’ve been watching in the mirror. They’re gaining a little. Probably got snow chains. But I think I can hold them” She only sounds mildly concerned and picks up speed even more. “Now, go on. What have you been up to?” Tracy prompts. “And don’t try to fool me. I know you’re in the Secret Service. Papa told me.” 

“Well, Papa’s talking through his hat,” Bond mutters, which elicits a knowing laugh from her. But he does tell her anyway, a summarized version of the story, because he trusts her, even if she didn’t promise to keep all of this only between the two of them just now. “And then,” he concludes, “you turned up like a beautiful angel on skates, and here we are.” 

“Well, this angel has got pretty bad news for you, James. They’re gaining on us, and I’ve only got a couple of gallons left in the tank.” It’s only now that she seems a little ruffled. “We’ll have to think up something clever.” 

There’s about a half a mile between the two cars, and upcoming is a stretch of reconstruction work for where there was a landslide, big warning notices just alongside the broken road. On their right is the mountain side, and on the left is rickety fencing and a steep precipice that leads straight down to a gorge with an ice-floed river. In the middle of that bad stretch, there’s a huge red arrow pointing toward a narrow track across a temporary bridge on the right.

“Stop!” Bond shouts.

Tracy pulls up immediately as Bond tears open the door. “Wait for me round the next corner. It’s our only chance,” is all he says to her, but she listens and drives without a word, putting her trust and safety entirely in his hand without hesitation. 

Bond is beyond grateful as he runs to wrench up the red arrow, swings it round so it points to the left where the flimsy fence and collapsed bridge awaits. Next, he kicks down the fence, pulls the stakes out, and flatten everything. 

When the glare from the headlight of the pursuing car flashes round the corner behind him, Bond leaps across the temporary road and waits, holding his breath and keeping himself inconspicuous. 

The Mercedes falls for the trap as he hopes, and, driving at the great speed that it has been, the vehicle skids, brake screeching as the tyres try to grapple for purchase on the slippery ice and snow. But it’s already too late, and soon enough, the car is somersaulting to its doom, plunging straight into the iced over river. 

Bond stands with a sigh and proceeds to go over to straighten everything back to where they belong—the fence, the arrow—then heads back to where Tracy is waiting, exactly as he instructed, the little white car pulled to the side with its lights out. 

He slips in and slumps into the seat. Tracy says nothing and starts driving, but in the now quiet, moonlit night, she reaches for his hand and holds on tightly. “Go to sleep; you’ve had enough for one day. I’ll get you to Zürich,” she says softly. “Please. Do what I say.” 

Bond only presses at her hand weakly and leans his head against the door jamb. He falls instantly asleep and is out for the count. 

 

-

 

They’re in the Zürich Airport now, a grey dawn breaking over the horizon. Bond orders them both scrambled eggs and coffee. 

“I’ve taken care of things over at my end now, but Tracy, you need to leave for the nearest place over. There’ll be people who saw you drive away with the Mercedes on your tell, and it won’t be safe.” 

“I suppose, but…” She sighs, knowing this full well already. “James, do I have to leave you now? We’ve been waiting for each other for so long, and—” She looks up at him, and there’s  a trace of tears sparkling in her eyes, something which wouldn’t be there if they were back in the Royale days, but it firms up into sheer resolution. “I’m a good shot, too, you know,” she says. “It comes with being the daughter of the man who leads the Union Corse.” 

Bond opens his mouths then closes it again, blinking at her. “Tracy,” he begins. “I know you’re capable, but Blofeld is as relentless as he’s devious. And I want you to be safe above all else. I—” He stares at her, and a sudden thought crosses his mind: he’s never going to find another woman like her. She’s got everything that he’s ever looked for—beautiful, resourceful, adventurous, and brave. She’s exciting always, and more than anything, she seems to love him. Genuinely. And she’ll let him go on with his life as it is now…

They’re two of a pair, really. So, why not make it for always?

“Tracy. I love you,” he says, the words he never expected to hear from himself tumbling out his lips like waves crashing ashore. “Will you marry me?” 

Tracy turns very pale, looking at him wonderingly. “You mean that?” she breathes. 

“Yes.” Bond nods. He is, for the first time in a long while, sincere. “I mean it. With all my heart.”

She suddenly buries her face in her hands at this, but after a moment, when she finally looks up, she’s smiling. “Sorry, that came as a shock. But yes. Yes, of course I’ll marry you.” Tracy is absolutely ecstatic. “I must tell Papa. He’ll be terribly excited.” 

“Let’s get married in Munich after you get there, at the Consulate.” Bond is smiling himself, her happiness infectious, warmth and relief flooding his whole being. This is utterly extraordinary. “I’ve got a kind of diplomatic immunity, so I can get the papers through quickly. Then, we can go to England and get married again. Or Scotland, rather. That’s where I’m from.” 

Bond stands, and so does she. It’s about time they need to get going—her to Munich, where she’ll lie low for a couple of days until it’s marginally safer to go about, and he back to England to make his reports. “I’ll call you tonight and tomorrow,” he promises. “I’ll get to you as soon as I can the moment I finish this business.” 

Tracy nods. “You promise you won’t get hurt?” And Bond is glad that, this time round, she seems to be listening to him and has dropped the idea of following him into danger. 

“I wouldn’t think of it. For once, I’ll run away if someone starts any shooting.” 

They kiss, sealing every promise made. And that is that. 

 

-

 

After debriefing and much disruption of quite a few people’s Christmas, Bond, along with M, manages to figure out what Blofeld’s scheme is: biological warfare. He hypnotizes the ten men up in that mountain top facility and sends them back to Britain like sleeper agents who aren’t even aware of what has been planted into their minds. Then, when the time comes, these men will spread out and, using what can only be cultivated viruses that Bond saw in that laboratory, spray deadly diseases onto concentrated areas of poultry, cattles, crops, etc. along the country. All the while thinking that they’re only improving the breed with some beneficial elixirs. 

It this plan ever succeeds, it’s going to devastate and cripple the entirety of Britain.

Bond sighs. He’s now on his way to meet Marc-Ange, and it’s for more than just to officially ask Tracy’s hand in marriage. He feels bad having to lie to her about this, but after their exchange at the airport and her temperament… He did call her up as he said, and just listening to her darling voice, talking to her, wishing each other many goodnights and kisses just because they were both reluctant to hang up… 

He can’t risk it. He can’t risk her getting caught in the crossfire. 

But at the same time, Bond can’t risk passing this case to another either. He’s been chasing after Blofeld and SPECTRE for so long, he has to be there when it all ends. 

And this is why he’s going to Marc-Ange now, to secretly ask for the man’s help behind Tracy’s back. 

It doesn’t take much convincing after Bond tells him everything of the situation they have at hand for Marc-Ange,  _ Capu _ of the Union Corse, to agree to help him. And for this, Bond is glad. They need to finish Blofeld once and for all.

 

-

 

They take a helicopter and pretend to be from the Red Cross, just passing by while delivering blood plasma to Italy. It technically doesn’t really quite work because Blofeld’s guard is up, and he’s always been paranoid anyway, which doesn’t surprise Bond. But a bit of acting and a bit of lying ( _ “We’re carrying representatives of the world’s press, too. And they’ve been listening to all this nonsense coming from the home of the infamous International Red Cross. I wish you happy reading of your newspapers at breakfast tomorrow, gentlemen” _ ), they manage to get close enough to manage a landing on the plateau of the alp where Blofeld’s ‘research institute’ is. 

And then all hell breaks loose.

Bond, spotting someone with Blofeld’s newest profile dashing away down toward the cable station, instantly runs after him, which, he knows, blows their cover for being so-called Red Cross, but he doesn’t particularly care right then. Not even when bullets rain past him in a deadly hail from behind. 

Blofeld cannot get away.

They round the corner of the club, and Bond fires three rounds from his Walther to stop Blofeld from getting away with the one-man skeleton bobsleigh he has obtained, but the burst of heavy automatic from the man has Bond jumping out of the way to avoid the bullets. And Blofeld is gone, flinging himself onto the skeleton and disappearing down the slope. 

Cursing, Bond runs inside to get himself a skeleton and follows him. But soon enough, Bond realizes two things: he is going too fast, and he doesn’t remember all the details of the runs, which is a mistake in hindsight. Not that he can do much about it now other than frantically digging his toes into the ice to slow down his descend and trying to recall as much of the mental map as he can. And soon enough, Bond can see the parallel tracks of Blofeld’s runners under his nose, and he knows he’s getting close to that old fox. 

Bond hisses when he makes a sharp curve and feels his elbow crashing against one wall, but only grits his teeth and keeps on straight in his dogged, relentless pursuit. Finally, Blofeld’s shadow is within sight, and Bond can tell that he’s gaining. With a bit of effort, he manages to retrieve his gun, clutches it in his mouth first so he can shake off the thick ice-flakes caking all over the leather of his glove, transfers the weapon into his hand, and shoots. 

He snarls when the bullets miss their target as Blofeld slips back into the shadow again, but before he can get close enough to fire off a few more follow-up rounds, he sees something on the track up ahead. Black, and the size of a big lemon, bouncing toward him like a rubber ball.

Christ!

There isn’t even time for him to try and steer away. The subsequent explosion throws Bond into the air as he lands into the soft snow with his skeleton bob on top of him, head spinning and ears ringing just as he succumbs to the grips of unconsciousness. 

 

-

-

 

A couple of days later, Bond tries not to think too much about the fact that Blofeld got away as he touches down at Munich Airport. After that grenade went off, he was out like a light for a few minutes, and by the time he woke up, Marc-Ange’s people were blowing up the mountain top facility for good, but Blofeld himself had already gotten too far away.

He reported everything back to MI6 now, and can only leave it out of his mind for now to make it to his rendezvous with Tracy. He has a promise to keep, after all. 

Tracy is staring wide-eyed at him the second he steps out of Passport Control but does her best to reign in her reactions until they get into her car. “What have they been doing to you?”

Bond knows he looks the worse for wear, but there’s, regretfully, nothing he can do about it right now, not even to relieve Tracy’s worries. “It’s all right,” he says, taking her into his arms. “I promise you, these are only cuts and bruises. Like a bad ski-fall. They could happen to anyone.” He gently smooths back her hair and thumbs away the tears he can see gathering. 

“I knew you were up to no good as soon as you said you were going off for a few days to clean up something instead of coming to me.” She reaches up to wipe at her eyes herself, fierce as ever. “You think I couldn’t put two and two together and figured out what happened, especially after Papa phoned and asked if I had seen you just as that story about the institute on the alps broke all over the news?” 

She shakes her head, draws in a sharp breath to calm herself, then looks back up at him. “All right. I won’t ask questions, but don’t think that means you’re not an idiot.” The passion in her eyes burns like bright embers, and Bond can’t help but stare. “You don’t seem to think it matters to anyone, the way you go off recklessly risking your life like that. It’s so… so selfish.”

Looking at her now, the pained concern in her eyes, he knows she is right. He really didn’t think there was anybody out there who actually cared this much for him. But she does, she actually cares for him. Loves him. In three days’ time, he won’t be alone anymore. He’ll be a half of two people, and were he to get himself killed… it would be Tracy who would partially die with him. 

“I’m sorry, Tracy,” he says softly. “It was something that had to be done. I just couldn’t back out of it.” It doesn’t make things any better, but Bond supposes it’s marginally better than not giving her an explanation at all, no matter how vague.

Tracy sighs. “I wouldn’t love you and want to live with you if you weren’t the way you are… That doesn’t mean I will stop worrying, though, because that’s just how love is.” She gives him a fleeting smile. “Now, the newspaper with the story is behind the seat on the floor.”

Bond can only laugh. She just totally reads his mind. “Damn you, Tracy,” he says fondly, reaching for the paper. He’s been aching to see how much has come out.

 

-

 

They catch up with one another over drinks and a good dinner, Tracy and he, and talk about all sorts of things. All sorts of nest-building things, exciting things that have to do with being married. And Bond finds that he’s curiously pleased, pleased that he has, at last, come to rest. That his life will feel fuller and have more meaning now that he has someone to share it with. 

Later, he picks out traditional, plain gold wedding bands for the both of them, and searches until he finds a baroque ring, white gold with two diamond hands clasped, to be Tracy’s engagement ring. She’s ecstatic, breaking into tears when he slips it on her finger as though it’s the most beautiful ring in the world. 

It’s sheer happiness. 

 

-

 

“I do.”

James Bond says at ten thirty in the morning on a crystal-clear New Year’s Day in the British Consul General’s drawing-room.

And he means every word.

Head of Station Munich is there to be Bond’s best man, and Marc-Ange (who has finally agreed to only help when Tracy and Bond ask for it instead of insisting on them taking one million pounds in gold) is also there in a full suit with two rows of medals. 

It’s a brief affair, as per both of their wishes, and soon enough, Bond and Tracy are heading out into her darling little white car, the Lancia, bidding their farewells. Someone, probably the Consul’s wife, has tied white ribbons onto it. 

“I’m afraid we haven’t managed to keep this as private as you’d have liked, Mr Bond,” the Consul General says and shakes Bond’s hand, nodding at the small group of bystanders. “Some woman reporter came this morning. Gossip writer, I suppose.” He smiles. “All still tight, though. And well, so long and the best of luck.” 

They get into the car, and Tracy starts the engine, which purrs then roars softly to life, before they head down the empty street ahead, waving one more time out the window and rounding the corner. 

When they find the exit, Bond turns to Tracy and says, “Be an angel and pull into the side, Tracy. I’ve got two things to do.”

Blinking at Bond, Tracy looks confused but does so anyway, putting the car to park on the side of the road where the brown grass of winter shows through the thin snow. It’s now that Bond reaches for her, gathering her gently into his arms, and gives her a tender kiss. 

“That’s the first thing,” he whispers with a smile. “And I just want to say that I’ll look after you, Tracy. Will you mind being looked after?”

She holds him away from her, holding his eyes with her own brilliant blue ones, and smiles in kind. “That’s what it means being Mr and Mrs, doesn’t it? You need looking after, too, and we can just look after each other.” 

“All right,” Bond agrees. “Now, I really have to get out and take those ribbons down.”

Tracy laughs. It’s a delightful sound. “Okay.” 

And so Bond gets out and removes the ribbons from their car, the cloudless sky above radiating warm sunlight on his skin. “Do you think we’d be too cold if we took the roof down?” he asks. 

“No, let’s,” she hums. “It’s a lovely drive from here to Kitzbühel, and we can always put it up again if we want to.” 

Bond nods and gets to work, and soon enough, they set off again down the beautifully landscaped road. 

They don’t talk much, Bond occasionally leaning in to tell Tracy about what he knows of the activities and events in the places that they pass by, but then again, neither of them mind. It’s all right with the easy, companionable silence that they share. 

From behind, there’s a red Maserati coming up and gaining on them with great speed. 

Frowning, Bond is about to wave the vehicle to go ahead and cut past them when he sees a flash of some automatic gun being withdrawn, and that’s all he knows before the Lancia suddenly is going like hell off the verge across a stretch of snow, smashing a path through a young copse. Bond’s head cashed into the windscreen, and he’s out.

 

-

 

Someone is shaking him violently, and when Bond jerks awake, there’s a young man in the khaki uniform of the Autobahn Patrol standing there, his face edged with stark horror. 

“What happened?” He’s asking Bond, but Bond’s body aches with a dull pain, and the haze that veils across his mind is like a thin smoke of confusion. 

He doesn’t register much of anything in his surroundings up until he turns and tries to look for Tracy. She’s there, lying forward with her face buried in the ruins of the steering wheel. Her pink handkerchief has somehow come off, and the bells of her beautiful golden hair hangs down, hiding away her face. 

Bond’s eyelashes flutter, and he tells himself that it’s just his hand that is cool to the touch when he reaches out and brushes it against her skin. There are bruises already blooming all along her shoulders, and softly, carefully, he puts his arm around her and presses her flush against him. 

The young patrol is still standing there, looking stricken, and Bond just smiles reassuringly up at him.

“It’s all right,” he says, his voice clear and patient as though he’s explaining something to a child. “It’s quite all right; we’ll be going on soon. She’s just having a rest. There’s no hurry.” His arm tightens around her, palm coming up to cradle the back of her neck. “You see—”  he sinks his head down against her, breathing in the familiar scent of her favorite perfume, and whispers into her hair, “—we’ve got all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a wild ride to rewrite. The requirement was that we had to stay true to what original book, so I didn't deviate much from it, but I still had fun morphing the characters more to my liking. 
> 
> Tracy grew on me, and writing that last scene actually made me tear up for some reason... _They had all the time in the world..._ :') 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the ride!


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